lol
by Szocika
Summary: lol


Sometimes Rick hates that voice of reason, because it's always right. He still blames himself, though, because if he'd ignored Hershel's hesitation and searched for the prison as soon as he heard it could be an option, they could have avoided this. If he had pushed a little harder to make sure they were ready sooner, instead of having to take the time to make absolutely sure, they wouldn't have been delayed and Lori would be smiling and laughing instead of sobbing and trying to stifle her pain before it alerts any walkers that might have managed to evade their sweeps.

Sitting at one of the tables in the common area, Rick cradles Carl against his body and curls around his son the way he had back at the quarry when they'd been reunited. This time, though, he's not looking at Daryl and trying to convey everything he cannot put into words. This time he's clenching his teeth and closing his eyes so tightly it hurts, failing to keep the tears at bay no matter how hard he tries.

That baby didn't even get a chance at life. It didn't get a chance to feel the sun, or play in the swaying grasses out in the prison field while they watched and smiled at the way the sun shone down on it like the walkers didn't exist. They all knew that this was the best it was going to get—that there would be nowhere safer for that little girl or boy to grow up than behind these fences and with all of them to raise him or her. That baby brought them all together in a way that cannot be described, taking the bonds they'd already formed and cementing them firmly as family.

There's too much death in this world, too much ugliness. Maybe this is just a blessing in disguise, then, because what would happen to that child if the fences did come down and none of them were fast enough? They would have been forced to watch as walkers tore their little miracle to shreds, fracturing them in a way that couldn't be mended and leaving behind ugly scars they couldn't bear to see because it would remind them every time that they had failed.

"Why does it have to be like this, dad?" Carl whispers against his shoulder, too young for such brutality and yet already so much more mature than any child should be. Circumstances will allow for nothing else, though, because in this new world you either kill or you'll be killed—Darwinism thrown back in his face in a way he'd never expected, because this really is the purest form of it. All of them are strong enough, so they get to survive. The baby was weak, and so it died and continued the cycle.

"I don't know, Carl," he chokes around the lump in his throat, the words mangled and barely audible even though he's whispering them against his son's temple. "I wish I did, but I just don't know."

Merle is tense and wound tighter than a spring when Rick tracks him down. He finds the redneck hidden away in a corner of the courtyard, a cigarette clamped between his lips as he sucks in long drags and blows them out like he's trying to spit venom from his lungs. Daryl is nowhere in sight, and he already knows what that means even before the older Dixon opens his mouth.

"Gone. Probably killing innocent forest critters. Bet we'll have enough meat to last us months when he finally drags his ass home."

"You really think it's safe enough for him to be out there alone?" Rick leans against the wall beside Merle; eyes the cigarette when it's offered and takes it after a heartbeat of hesitation. He inhales the tobacco like he's inhaling life, only coughing a little as his lungs readjust to tar and smoke that hasn't touched them since before Carl was born. He takes another drag, feeling the nicotine hit him hard and relishing the woozy feeling it brings before everything settles.

"Trust me, sheriff. Ain't nothin' out there can kill my little brother. Not walkers, not people. Sure as hell ain't gonna be killed by no damn deer. No, he'll work through his shit and he'll come home when he's ready."

"Either way, I don't think it's safe for him to be alone." Lori has Shane, and Carl, and all of the others. Rick has them too. Even Merle has their support and care, if he'd let himself accept it. Right now, Daryl is out there with no one to bring him back from the brink; to chase away the beast that is clouding his thoughts and reducing him to nothing but that primal creature Rick's only seen glimpses of.

"Ain't safe for him ta be here, neither. Not with all that blood."

It's said quietly, barely above a whisper, but Rick hears it loud and clear. He frowns, flicking the ash from the tip of the cigarette before he passes it back to Merle and turns to look at the side of his face.

"Why does human blood make him react like that?"

Merle glances at him, only the miniscule twitch of his jaw muscles as he clenches his teeth letting Rick know that he's surprised him. The ill-tempered man is a tough nut to crack, but he's gotten better at reading him the longer they're around one another. He'll never be able to peel back the layers of masks that Merle wears as a self-defense mechanism, but right now that tiny tell is enough to let him know he's hit on something important about Daryl. Now he just needs to figure outwhyit's important.

"What makes you think that, piggy?"

Rick ignores the jibe, knowing for certain now that he's hit a sore spot by how defensive and wary Merle is being. "I've seen him skin more animals than I can count, Merle. He's never cared once about getting their blood all over him. He just goes on like nothing's the matter. But he accidentally cut my lip earlier, and I thought he was going to hyperventilate. And then when he saw Lori…"

"Why don't ya track him down and ask him yourself, detective," Merle spits. He drops the filter of his cigarette and grinds it out beneath his heel; jams his hands deep into his pockets and turns to walk away.

"Merle, what is he hiding from?"

"It ain't what he's hidin' from, officer." Stopping, the man turns just enough to glare back at Rick with one narrowed, glinting eye. "He accepted how things are a long, long time ago. He may hate it, but he can't change it, so he accepted it and got on with his damn life like a real man."

Rick grinds his teeth together, tired of riddles and just wanting some answers. He feels like Merle is trying to help him, trying to guide him to the solution without giving away the puzzle. He thinks over the words thrown at him with care, picking them apart. When the lightbulb goes on, his head snaps up and he meets the man's gaze again.

"Who is he hiding from?" he asks, already rocking up onto the balls of his feet and readying himself to run. Approval flashes across Merle's tired features, a crooked smile tilting one corner of his mouth up when he turns back around and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Ain't that the question of the year. Why don't you go find my little brother, and you can ask him that yourself. Way I see it, he ain't got nothin' to worry about. I been wrong plenty of times before, though. So let me just say this to you, Rick Grimes."

Three steps and Merle is in his face, eyes burning into him and the promise of violence rolling from muscles that are intimately familiar with hurting and being hurt.

"If you hurt him, ain't nowhere in this whole damn world you can run. I will find you, and I will kill you in the slowest way I can think up. You will suffer, pig, and you will not die quickly. I will make you feel every second of the torture I'll inflict on you if you break my brother's heart."

Rick holds his ground because he has no reason to shy away, meeting Merle's blazing eyes with his own burning gaze as the darkness rises in him like a tidal wave and hangs on the precipice, ready to throw itself over the edge with all the force of a tsunami and flood everything that gets in its way—drag it down into the depths and drown it with the conviction of a man who will do anything to keep his loved ones safe.

There's nothing that needs to be said, so Rick just tilts his head and waits for Merle to nod before he steps around the man and runs down the gravel drive that winds through the prison fields and leads to the gates. He can hear Merle behind him, following to make sure the gates are secured behind him once he's away from their protection and at the mercy of the wild and the walkers. He hears them close with a grinding screech and a clang but doesn't bother to look over his shoulder and check, because Merle isn't an idiot no matter how stupid he pretends to be.

The woods welcome Rick like an old friend, branches still heavy with fat green leaves bending beneath the weight of life like they're reaching for him and guiding his way. He can't track as well as Daryl, but he doesn't need to be able to—not for this. For this, he just needs to follow his instincts, the beast rumbling as it reaches out with inky tendrils and searches for its other half. Somewhere deep inside of Rick, there is a faint echo of darkness that is like his own, but not completely. There are tiny differences between the two, and he latches onto them as he turns and heads west, towards the first water source he can think of.

Rabbits bolt and squirrels chatter in alarm as he runs past, his footsteps too heavy and his blood roaring in his ears as he follows a trail he can only sense. It grows stronger with every yard, getting closer and more insistent until it feels like it's howling loudly enough to make his ears bleed. He can see the hint of a bridge taking shape between the trees, his instincts urging him faster and faster until his muscles burn and his lungs are screaming from the need for air he can't fully draw.

Bursting out of the trees, Rick sees corpses and a rusty car with shattered windows. There's blood splashed all over the body of the vehicle, a walker slumped against the left rear tire with a bolt protruding from the back of its head. Beyond the carnage is more blood, dark and fresh and spreading slowly in a widening pool of life that should never be so removed from the body it's supposed to be safely contained inside of. Rick takes a step closer, the tip of his boot sliding through a little bit of the dark puddle, and manages to find enough clarity to look toward the source of this macabre form of art.

There, lying on his side with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and more of it spreading over his chest and stomach and a filthy bundle of blankets in front of him, is Daryl. His eyes are closed, his chin tilted down, and Rick has a horrible second where he thinks his archer is dead before those cloudy blue eyes slowly crack open and meet his horrified stare.

Clarity crashes into place, the roaring in his ears subsiding, and only then does Rick hear the wailing of the infant wrapped in the bundle that Daryl is cradling against his chest.


End file.
